Others
by Catastrofica
Summary: There were other children in Whammy’s house. They may not have succeded L, however, each of them carved their way into the world. These are their stories. Rating may change because killing characters is fun.
1. Copper

AU: Note that only the first four chapters are going to be short because that are merely meant to get the reader to identify with the character, create and sense of suspense, and introduce the basic plot. Also, in the reader does not fully read into the subtleties of the first four chapters, he/she will never understand the story.

**Others**

There were other children in Whammy's house. None as well developed for the position of L then Matt, Mello, and Near, but they were there all the same. They might not have become the world's greatest detective, but they did carve their way into the world. These are their stories.

**COPPER**

Colbert Goutier was a quiet boy. He spent many rainy afternoons sitting in the big window in the commons, which stretched almost to the very ceiling. The commons had been built to allow the resident children a place to socialize. However, because so many of the children aspired to become L, they were seldom found in places other then the learning labs, testing rooms, laboratories, or libraries found throughout the mansion. This was why Copper found this place so magical. It was untouched by the other children, to which he had always felt inferior. You see, Copper was not brilliant in the way the other children viewed brilliance. He could not make logical deductions from absolutely _nothing_. He could not do quadratic functions in his head. He could not read books upside down in Kurdish in less then ten minutes. He could do none of these things.

He could paint. He could paint beautiful landscapes more accurately then any picture. He could paint emotions with such vitality that the casual observer could be moved to blinding rage, or crushing sorrow, or light hearted laughter; all at the whim of the painter. He loved to paint. He loved it more then anything in the world. Well, almost anything.

There was a girl who played when it rained. She could be seen from this window. He watched her every day from his spot in the empty room. She would run, and jump, and spin, and make his heart flutter with her every movement. She was at once one with the splattering rain that soaked her long honey-colored hair and her odd mismatched clothing. There was no pattern to her movement; just like his paintings, which defied the logic to which most of the tenants clung to.

He could not paint her. He had gone through many canvases and paint tubes trying. He could never put his love on paper. He could not paint the spark in her green eyes when the lightning flashed. Nor could he capture whimsical way her hair moved in the harsh wind. He sighed. Tomorrow, he would try again, as he had the many days of the many weeks of the many months before.

He rose and climbed the marble stairs that led to dormitory. He entered his room, the eighth to the right, and went strait into the private bathroom. The bathrooms were quite fancy, though you would never know with the paint splatters. He brushed his teeth and his fiery orange hair, changed out of his smock and slipped into the 330 count silk sheets, which were also splattered with paint. He, for another night in so many that he could never count, dreamt of her.


	2. Thyme

Thyme

Thymehad always loved the rain. It had been her everlasting companion. When she couldn't sleep, it sung honeyed melodies to soothe her wild spirit. When she was frustrated, almost to the point of crying, it would whisper words of comfort until she became a steady river of calm, flowing thought; and, if she was lonely, as she so often found herself, it would keep her company and tell her stories of far off places, and adventures, and excitements she would never be able to see, or hear, or experience for herself.

Today was no different.

She spun, and skipped, and listened, and laughed when the rain would say something particularly amusing.

In retrospect, she probably would have appeared to be unfathomably strange to any prying eyes that would find her in this, her happiest state. However, no one here ever pays attention to anything other then their studies, right? Doubtless it wouldn't have mattered. She had never identified with another human being well enough to actually care what anyone thought; Other then herself, of course.

The rain was talking again, and she paused for the briefest of moments in order to listen to its infinite wisdom. _The boy is leaving._

"The boy?" she whispered in reply, moving her lips as minimally as possible so that they appeared not to move at all. The rain merely laughed a light myriad of sound. She shrugged and then stared at the sky, never stopping the whirling dance her body had taken up. She did this, staring at the sky I mean, in order to discern where the rain came from. She knew the scientific reason, of course, but she always felt that science had no part to play in the game that was only between her and the rain.

That was when she heard it. It was soft at first, so soft that anyone other then herself would have missed it. However, it was a sloping crescendo into an audible sigh. The rain was singing. She stilled completely, enraptured as always be the captivating sound. Her heart raced to catch up to the tempo the song had taken up. As the song ended, signaling the end of her time with the rain, and the continuation of its journey, she ran to the mansion with a glee that even a fey would be envious of. The rain had graced her with a new song, one she must play quickly, lest she forget the notes that were now so fresh in her mind.

She raced down the hallway, soaking the rich velvety carpet, and dashed through the door to the commons. From there she flew up the stairs, or rather tried to do so, as the mixture of gravity and wet marble were not being kind to her today. She slipped down the dormitory hallway, and slid a few feet past her door, unable to stop her forward motion. She quickly backtracked a few step and shakily unlocked her door. She burst forward into the room and slammed the door, once again thankful that Roger had been so kinds as to sound proof her room, lest she be forced to share the rain's song. Greedy creature that she was, she would never willingly do so. She yanked her violin off of its pedestal and tuned the instrument as quickly as her nimble fingers would allow her. She raised the bow and allowed it to swim back and forth across the taught strings. Her fingers appeared to dance with all the grace of a Russian ballet; and from her ministrations came the song that, like all the other gifts the rain had given her, captivated her very soul. And more: _The song of the Rain number 25_.


	3. Boot

A/N: I would like to thank my reviewers. I was going to stop writing this story, but you have been so kind in your reviews that I have been inspired to live up to them. Thank you.

Boot

Brian Samuel was never considered normal. He was a computer genius. He could write line upon line of complex digital code. He could name every part of every computer, calculator, or PDA made since the "Difference Engine" circa 1782. He could also tell you their functions and build a working model from junk. He could hack into any mainframe in the world; as he was often asked to do for Roger when L would send too many requests for one man to handle. Any orphan receiving such requests would often be envied, or in his case bullied. This was because many of the children staying here would view it as special treatment from L. Boot doubted it was special treatment. Mostly, it was hell.

Boot was not able to become L. He knew this from the moment he set foot into the Whammy House. He lacked effective interrogation and manipulation skills. He also lacked any from of socialization skills whatsoever. It was one of the many reasons he was always being beaten by the other children. No, he would eventually be a lab rat, or perhaps he would spend his days doing the hacking work for Near or Mello when one of them succeeded L. That is, if he managed to survive that long. If his diet of ramen cups and yogurt didn't kill him, or his lack of exercise, or lack of exposure to sunlight, or his over exposure to the radiation from his many computers, whose screens were even now blinking at him, then the other children probably would.

Children are cruel.

Especially Mello, and he prayed, not for the first time, that Near would succeed L. He could only imagine what Mello would do if his ego became any bigger.

Now then, Boot's alias was not something modern, or impressive, or representative of his talent. You would probably think it's clever because it's like "Booting up a computer" or a shorter version of "Rebooting". This is not the case. Boot was the perfect name for him. He was short, 5'7 with messy brown hair, pale skin, and bulbous glasses, from staring at computer screens all day. He was always being used to do the dirty work others. He was always being stepped on, chewed up, spit out, dragged around, and generally spit upon. He was a shoe. Insignificant until you stepped on a pebble and you needed him. Then you would just put him on your feet and let _him_ deal with it. Not that he was bitter, oh no. Facts were facts and these were just facts.

He paused. He had, up until now, been writing a memoir for future generations of Boot-like children. He wanted them to know that they are not alone. It wouldn't help, but perhaps they might learn from his mistakes. Perhaps they would realize, early on, that they were better of drinking and chain smoking then cultivating there minds. Still, his only regret was that he would have to change all of the names in his work. He was pretty sure that Roger would be angry if he did anything that might expose L. Of course, changing the name would make his anecdote about his name become meaningless. Interesting metaphor, no?

He glanced at the clock, it was getting late. He moved his hands one again to the keys but didn't type. He could hear footsteps behind him. He held his breath and waited. Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned from the computer screen, and glanced at his television monitor, which was hooked up to the security cameras he had placed in the hallway outside his door. He once again wondered why Roger allowed him do such a thing, but shrugged it off as he waited for the person approaching to move in front of the cameras. It was Copper the painter kid, shuffling to bed as usual.

Shrugging it off he moved back to the keyboard, and was again prepared to write the rest of his introduction when he heard a few soft thuds coming, in rapid succession, from the stairs. This time it was Thyme racing past in a whirl of untamed energy. He had always envied Thyme. She never had to worry about everything. Sure, she was bat shit insane, but she was happy. She was the one who gave him the idea for his name in the first place. Next to her, he felt plain. Like they very ugly brown boots she wore on her first day at Whammy's. She had never been mean to him; or anyone else for that matter, she just sort of seemed off…ethereal almost. Like she was a part of some world that no one else could see or hear or touch. Like the NPC girls in his online games.

Speaking of games, he never did answer Matt's email. Turning back to his screen he allowed a brief smile to grace his features. This would be a flame war to remember.

A/N: I need someone to critique this chapter. I was trying to make Boot seem….downtrodden, but at the same time almost robotic. As an artistic person, I can do a better job writing about Thyme or Copper, but I have no point of reference for Boot. Please give me some constructive criticism. Also, do you think I should extend the first two chapters? I spent so many words on Boot, trying to describe something I don't know anything about, that feel as though I jaded Thyme and Copper….


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